Like A Weakness
by JDPhoenix
Summary: Grant is given the chance to rest after a mission. It's not quite so restful as he might have hoped for.


Disclaimer: I don't own Agents of SHIELD or Marvel or these two stupid kids with their stupid wasted potential. I just like playing around with them.

AN: This takes place in a magical world where Jemma and Grant are both working for HYDRA. (I like to call that world "the future" but I'm probably wrong.)

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><p>HYDRA's just as much a stickler for protocol as SHIELD ever was, but Whitehall's got a soft spot for his favorite agents. That or he's playing his usual mind games, using these special favors and leniencies as a way of garnering loyalty the same way he uses that brainwashing room of his. If Whitehall's trying to buy Grant's loyalty by letting him sleep before his debriefing, Grant doesn't much care; he's been up for more than fifty hours and all he wants is a shower and his bed.<p>

He doesn't actually _want_ the shower - he'd much rather fall straight into bed at this point - but he's kind of tracking blood through the unnervingly white halls. (He may have gotten a little overzealous back there, but then that's why he's one of HYDRA's best.)

He's got prime quarters in HYDRA's main base of operations. It's all above ground because that's how out of the shadows they are these days and Grant's rooms - that's right, _plural_ - are on an upper floor. The altitude makes it difficult to work escape plans - he's working on number seventeen now - but the view of the mountains is excellent. The apartment's also conspicuously close to Whitehall, which Grant thinks isn't so much because of his own status but because of who he shares the space with.

Thinking of that, he's quiet when he slips through the door, allowing only the barest amount of light from the hall to break into the dark apartment. Though he knows he's leaving stains on the mat, he takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. Spending part of the morning on his knees scrubbing is well worth avoiding knocking over a misplaced chair. His stomach rumbles as he passes through the kitchen (the tile will come clean easier than the carpet), reminding him he hasn't eaten a real meal since the last time he was here, but that'll have to wait.

There's only the one bathroom, forcing him into the bedroom. The door opens and closes without a sound and he's nearly there when the blankets on the bed shift and the body underneath twists away from the window to see him.

"Hey," Jemma says, her accent particularly thick this early in the morning.

"Go back to sleep," Grant says.

She makes a huffy noise at the suggestion and flops over. He hears a sloshing and she groans as she resettles. He missed the start of that time of the month; he can't say he's sorry about that.

"My hot water bottle's gone cold, but you'll do in a pinch," she sighs.

He smiles in the dark, wishing he could take her up on it. "Can't. Gotta get cleaned up."

Her answer is a noise that's half-whine, half-question. He ignores her and heads for the bathroom.

When he flicks on the light - after the door's closed to spare her the worst of it - he sees how bad it is. There is really a horrific amount of blood. Whitehall's not squeamish but it's entirely possible he let Grant go because he genuinely didn't want to deal with him like this.

Grant's tac gear spared his clothes somewhat but they're still likely unsalvageable. He pulls them off and shoves them in his sink to soak. He catches some of the water in his hands as he waits for the sink to fill up and uses that to wipe at his face. There are still streaks of red clinging to his pores, but when he looks in the mirror he can see himself more or less clearly again.

He shuts off the sink and turns to the shower just as the bathroom door opens.

"Oh."

Grant doesn't want to know what that one word means so he pushes down his training, refusing to analyze her tone. He twists the knob to hot before he turns to face her, forcing a time limit on whatever comes next. He's not in the mood to explain this; he shouldn't have to. They both know what the other does and, as she was so fond of reminding him just a few months ago, she's well aware he's a murderer.

She looks him up and down critically, her eyes catching here and there as her mouth tightens. Then she looks to his sink and rolls her eyes.

"You'll never get the stains out that way."

She marches into the room and grabs a small, unmarked bottle from beside her sink, which is in much the same state Grant's is at the moment.

"I invented this back at the Academy. Gets out blood easily without damaging the cloth. I could have sold it for mass consumption if it weren't for SHIELD's silly rules about secrecy." A few drops of the liquid go in with his clothes. She dips her hands straight into the mess, swirling it around a few times. If she cares at all about being wrist-deep in proof of what he's been doing, she doesn't show it.

"I think they'd consider those 'silly rules' their entire reason for existing," he says.

She shoots him a fond look in the mirror and rinses her hands, then begins stripping down.

"What are you doing?" he asks, torn between amusement and annoyance.

"You need to get cleaned up before I look to your injuries and I need something to relieve my cramping. A hot shower seems just the thing, don't you think?"

He's especially thankful for his decision to turn on the shower because steam's started to fog the mirror. If he had to look at her front and back at once he'd be completely incoherent and unable to form the very important thought that she's cheating. At what, he's not sure. They're not fighting, yet he's on edge. Maybe Whitehall sent him home because he could see what Grant couldn't, that he's still in that firefight.

Still, nakedness is definitely cheating, but if he accuses her of that, he'll sound childish and also she'll know she can use nakedness again in the future. So instead he nods to the bottle in her hand.

"What do you plan on using that for?"

She smiles proudly. "It's also far more efficient at washing blood off skin than soap is _and_ it moisturizes."

She's just so happy with her concoction, it's infectious. He can't even sound seriously hurt when he says, "Is that a veiled comment about my calluses?"

"Maybe," she teases and tries to slip past him into the shower. He grabs for her without meaning to catch her. She shrieks and leaps over the step into the stall, with Grant close behind.

True to her word, Jemma washes every inch of him with her bare hands. When she makes him kneel so she can wash his hair, it's truly cruel; he can't even do anything serious to her right now. He makes her pay by kissing her stomach and breasts, and teasing the backs of her legs and ass with his fingers until she's gripping his shoulders to keep from falling.

"Do you have any idea," she pants when he finally relents, "how many people are injured by falls in showers and baths each year?"

He thinks the way her desperate gasps mix with laughter is well worth it but he can't tell her that, it's too much like admitting to a weakness. Besides, the implication that he's not in complete control of the situation is mildly insulting. He drags himself up her body, kissing his way from her naval to her throat.

"I'll catch you if you fall," he says and kisses her on the mouth.

Reluctantly, he turns off the water and steps out of the stall ahead of her. The air outside is chill and while the effect on her anatomy is decidedly positive, they both need a breather. As she steps out, he hands her a towel and takes some pride in how shaky her steps are. She sees his grin and tries to look disapproving. It only comes off as adorable.

They dry off in silence. She has her sleep clothes to climb back into but his are still soaking. Once she's fully dressed she gives him a second appraising glance. Again, her eyes catch along the way and now that he's clean he realizes she's looking at his injuries.

"March," she orders and points towards the bedroom.

"I'm fi-"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Grant Ward. Especially when it's so obvious. It's insulting." She moves her still-lifted finger and he makes a show of dragging his feet.

It's not that he minds so much being patched up - especially by Jemma, who's far better than the usual HYDRA medics - but now that there's nothing to distract him, sleep is calling him. It doesn't help that she sits him on the bed while she works on him.

He drifts off a time or two, lulled to sleep by her familiar hands working on him. He comes awake again thanks to the same. When she adds her mouth to the equation, he says her name and doesn't stop saying it until he's too lost in her to find words.

Eventually he drags himself from the bed just long enough to grab a fresh pair of boxers from the dresser. He climbs under the covers behind her and throws the hot water bottle out before clutching her tight, something she only puts up with this time of the month. With her in his arms he can finally leave the mission behind him. Maybe that's the real reason Whitehall sent him home early.

The thought leaves him cold and he wraps himself further around Jemma to ward off the chill. She's already half-asleep and turns slightly into him, making a low sound of contentment. Tired as he was only minutes ago, he should be quick to follow but - just like every night since Whitehall had them relocated here, together - he can't sleep until he's gone through each of his escape plans in his head.

He has exactly sixteen plans to escape from HYDRA if things to south. It terrifies him that every one of them involves taking Jemma with him.


End file.
